


Put Me in a Movie

by aghamora



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: Cunnilingus, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Sex Tapes, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-05
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-10-15 03:26:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10549276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aghamora/pseuds/aghamora
Summary: Or, the one where Frank and Laurel make a sex tape, then proceed to watch said sex tape immediately afterward. As you do.





	1. Principal Photography

**Author's Note:**

> This accidentally got really long and explicit. I think this actually might be the most explicit thing I’ve ever written, which is… saying something. Title comes from the song by Lana Del Rey, because all my smut titles come from her songs for some reason. Who knows.
> 
> This is a two-parter, the next part will be up soon!

“You sure I’m in the shot? Lined it up right and everything?”

Laurel rolls her eyes. “Yes, you only made me check, like, four times.”

“Just wanna be sure.”

“You really think we need to have flawless camera angles if we’re just making a porno?”

“Hey,” Frank chides, sitting up and making his way across the room where she stands, positioning the camcorder on the dresser. “This is gonna be some Oscar-worthy cinematography, babe.” Laurel looks up from the camera, over at him, and chortles, prompting him to frown. “What?”

“Nothing,” she snickers. “It’s just… hard to take you seriously with your dick out.”

Naked as the day he was born, Frank glances down at the aforementioned third party in the room, dangling there innocuously between his legs, and quirks an eyebrow. “Keep attackin’ me and Frank Jr. here, and he might get performance anxiety.”

Laurel snorts. “If you ever personify your penis to me again, I’m going to break up with you.”

Frank humphs, but doesn’t reply at first. Instead, he only bends down and glances at the little screen on the camcorder with a look of contemplation, as if considering something, before sending a smirk her way.

“You think it’s kinda excessive to buy a camcorder just to make a sex tape with?”

Just as naked as he is and equally unashamed of the fact, Laurel folds her arms and gives a flippant shrug. “Maybe. But that’s what my trust fund was made for.”

Frank snickers. “Yeah, I’m sure your pops set that up with exactly this in mind.”

“Is this supposed to be getting me wet?” Laurel quips, and takes a step closer to him, listening to his breath hitch in his throat, observing their naked bodies in the mirror out of her peripheral vision; his tall and imposing and muscular, hers thin and lithe, the graceful, perky contour of her ass sloping down, waist curving in elegantly, like a harp. “Because if so, it’s really, really not working.”

She feels more than slightly ridiculous doing this, Laurel has to admit – although the idea _had_ been hers to start with, so she doesn’t get to stand on some sort of pretense of moral high ground in this situation. She’d put the idea to him, a bit timidly, and of course Frank had been up for it, because there really isn’t anything in the realm of sexual acts that Frank _isn’t_ up for. Things had gone down the rabbit hole from there very quickly, culminating in a Saturday afternoon trip to Best Buy to purchase a video camera – the purposes of which they’d had to lie to the very nice, very grandmotherly sales lady about to avoid giving the poor woman a heart attack.

They’d settled on Frank’s bedroom for filming – better natural light, he’d argued, clearly having put quite a lot of thought into this – and drawn up a vague play-by-play of positions. Still, though, Laurel finds herself unsure exactly how to proceed from here, when part of her wants to burst out laughing at how ridiculous all this is, and another wants to jump his bones right here and now and get on with it already.

“All right,” Frank says, and steps closer. “Got any ideas for good opening lines then?”

“Good opening lines? I didn’t know we needed a script.”

Frank shrugs. “Yeah, like… I’m a sexy pizza delivery guy, you ordered pizza but you don’t have any money…”

She furrows her brow. “Why would I order a pizza I can’t afford?”

“You know what I mean – it’s a classic porno opener, c’mon.”

Laurel scoffs, and inches closer, reaching a hand up and smoothing it idly across his chest. “No porno I’ve ever seen has started like that.”

“Oh yeah?” He grins crookedly. “So you’ve seen a lotta pornos then?”

“I’ve seen enough,” she says, and cocks her head to one side. “Now, are we gonna keep talking or are you gonna fuck me through the mattress already?”

Frank needs no further persuasion; in mere seconds he’s upon her like a wolf, pivoting forward, catching her in his arms, pulling her flush against him and kissing her deeply, his hands venturing lower and lower, brushing the small of her back then cupping her ass, no hesitation, no asking permission, no words, all action. She reaches down into the space between them, taking his cock in hand, feeling it start to twitch and harden as she pumps him, lightly, one, then twice; just a mere whisper-touch of her fingers, but more than enough to have him in the palm of her hand – quite literally.

“Mmm,” he hums, and pulls away briefly, hits the record button, then tugs her back over to the bed, into frame. “Then it’s lights,” he purrs, kissing the words onto her neck after they’ve toppled down together into a heap. “Camera.” Another kiss, this time sealed over her lips, his blue eyes saturated with mirth and dancing playfully. She has to hold back a laugh, as he makes his way atop her, spreading his body over hers. “Action.”

He doesn’t waste much time kissing her mouth, when really there’s another set of lips he finds just as kissable – if not more – and one that makes for a far better show. Hardly a minute passes before Frank begins his descent, sucking marks onto her neck, pulling ruby-red, glowing blotches from her skin, then teasing at her nipples, suckling her breasts languidly and massaging them with his hands until they thrum with a low, pleasant ache, like the dying embers of a fire. Only this fire isn’t dying, far from it; it’s building between her legs, building into a similar ache, but this one is a hell of a lot more insistent, and she can feel herself dampening, feel her pulse taking up residence in her clit, gooseflesh breaking out across her skin in droves. She rubs her thighs together, desperate to obtain some sort of friction, some sort of _anything_ when Frank is stubbornly refusing to touch her where she wants, basking in the sounds of her soft whines and whimpers like a man in the sun.

Suddenly, it registers to Laurel that she’s being yanked by the hips and turned, abruptly, so that her body is lying across the bed instead of lengthwise, providing the camera with a side view – and she has no goddamn clue how Frank is still concerned with camera angles, really, when her brain is foggy and fast slipping out of reality, booting down into that state where all it can recognize is pleasure, but of course he would be.

He's like the Stephen fucking Spielberg of pornos.

She rolls her eyes, sputtering a laugh. “Oh my God, really?”

“For the best viewing angles,” he undertones, rasping the words across her skin, and they push up more goosebumps still, until Laurel doesn’t think there’s an inch of her skin that isn’t covered in them. He sinks down onto his knees beside the bed, hair disheveled, blue eyes hazy and hooded. He takes hold of her foot, pressing a kiss to the side of it. “You want all the best angles, don’t you?”

The camera. Somehow she’d forgotten about it, lost herself in this moment with Frank – which, she figures, is kind of the point of making a believable sex tape. She’s nude, all but spread-eagled with him settled in between her splayed thighs, and no one is watching, but the camera _is_. She imagines she can feel its tiny mechanical eye trained on her, and really any sane person would be horrified, yet it makes her almost unbearably aroused, her blood bubbling in her veins like lava, like it’s trying to escape through her pores as if through a million tiny steam vents. She feels pent-up, pressurized to the point of bursting.

She really, really just wants his mouth on her cunt already. Because if he’s here to perform, he better damn well _perform_.

“Hurry up,” she whimpers, then manages a breathless laugh as Frank hovers over her, laying a trail of sloppy kisses on the inside of her thigh, nipping at a birthmark there; a darkened patch of skin she knows he’s come to adore. “Everybody… everybody skips through the foreplay part anyway.”

“Do they?” he teases, nudging her clit with his nose and sending a jolt through her. “Not me.”

Laurel opens her mouth to retort, shoot something back – she doesn’t know what, isn’t really planning the words that are coming out of her mouth, but before she has the chance, Frank is leaning in, capturing her folds in a deep, searing kiss, his mouth scalding her cunt, enveloping her completely as if trying to devour her in one bite, and he can, and he _is_. His pupils are wide, inky; irises a deep, soothing, rapt blue, and she swears she can almost feel them running across her body as if they were touching her, flowing over her skin smooth and easy like liquid. It’s tempting to stay propped up on her elbows, keep watching him as he laps at her, but her arms are trembling, _all_ of her is trembling, and she finds they can’t hold her weight. She’s boneless already, muscles loose and rubbery, all but useless.

“Oh fuck… Oh fuck, Frank-”

It’s a moment before he begins in earnest; at first he just teases her, nuzzling her clit, her folds, inhaling her heady scent like a honeybee to a flower. But then Frank dives back in with all the enthusiasm of an Olympic swimmer, and she thinks he is, when it comes to this, thinks she should give him a goddamn gold medal for eating her out – because when he eats her out he fucking _commits_ , throws himself into it, mind and body and soul, and it’s just his mouth on her, maybe, but somehow he makes it feel like so much more, like he has three tongues instead of one, molding all of them to her and melting against her, lapping her up, drinking her down with everything he has in him. He reads the fluttering of her breaths, the tightening of muscles, the twitching of her thighs, the rolling of her hips, decoding each one so effortlessly and responding accordingly, in that masterful, sharply focused way no one has ever attended to her with.

She glances down, and their eyes meet, and she barely recognizes the moan that spills past her lips when they do – because Frank never looks happier than he does when he’s like this, on his knees, settled in at his favorite meal. Devouring her greedily, downright gluttonous, always giving her more whenever she becomes so sure there’s no way he can possibly _give_ her more.

He wants this too. Sometimes she thinks Frank gets off on this even more than _she_ does.

Her hands migrate to her breasts, and she palms them, massaging her nipples almost frantically as little twinges shoot through her and tangle together into a knot of swelling pleasure between her thighs. Apparently, though, Frank isn’t content to let her do any work at all right now, because within seconds he’s reaching up, moving forward and placing his hands on her tits instead, massaging them in tandem with the frenzied strokes of his tongue. And God, Laurel knows how she must sound, how she must _look_ ; undignified, wanton; whimpering and whining, bucking her hips into his mouth, grabbing his hair and jamming his face against her soaked pussy like she’s going to die if she doesn’t come. Moaning like a porn star, ironically enough.  

She’s weak, within a hair’s breadth of coming, and then suddenly Frank is repositioning the two of them, lying down on the bed and hauling her atop him, and it takes her a moment to comprehend that he’s urging her to straddle him backwards, face the camera instead of facing him. They don’t fuck in this position often, since he much prefers seeing her face, watching her when she comes, but for the purposes of today Frank has chosen to sacrifice that luxury, and Laurel has no complaints to make about it.

“Smile for the camera,” he teases from below, and anchors his hands on her hips, lining her up with his cock and impaling her on it in one swift motion.

She wobbles, a bit, unaccustomed to this position and unsure where exactly she should put her hands, but she eventually settles on leaning forward slightly, placing her hands on his thighs to steady herself as she starts moving, slowly, testing this new position, feeling his cock so deep inside her from behind, stretching her to that delicious precipice just short of pain and filling her in a way no one else ever has – in a way she doesn’t think anyone else ever _can_. She’s gasping for breath, now, struggling to wrangle air into her lungs as she works up a pace, releasing the tension in her hips and letting them roll back and forth intuitively, and she feels Frank’s grip on her waist tighten, dull fingernails digging into her skin before he releases her, smoothes his hands over the fullness of her ass instead, guiding her backwards over him. He’s silent, for the most part. Frank generally is, in bed, though she loves nothing more than making him moan.

Than fucking _wrecking_ him.

But that isn’t the primary goal, today. Right now she’s here to perform, fuck herself on his cock and move her hips and look at the camera and _moan_ , and she feels downright ridiculous, and she also feels impossibly sexy, empowered, in a way she’d never imagined she would. So she does all three of those things, finding the camera lens with ease where it rests on the dresser in front of the bed, spectating silently with its black, beady little eye, and she imagines in it the eye of the world, the eye of thousands, watching her, her body, as she reaches up, cupping her breasts, pinching the nipples, letting him roll her back onto his cock as he fucks into her from behind.

There’s a smack, suddenly, followed by a burning on her ass, like the scattering of a hundred pinpricks, and she manages a scoff, looking back at Frank in disbelief and slowing her pace. “The fuck?”

“Keep smilin’,” he quips, grinning wickedly, like a lewd Cheshire cat. “Show must go on.”

“Fuck you,” she breathes, voice light, airy. She tries, but can’t manage to inject even the slightest bit of anger into it before it dissolves back into a groan. “Oh God, fuck _me_.”

She contemplates saying something else, something a tad bit more articulate, but the words die on her tongue, and they’d decided to keep dialogue to a minimum anyway, so instead Laurel repositions herself, leaning back somewhat and placing her hands on his chest and redistributing her weight against him, bending her knees, allowing her to spread her legs and massage her clit. She thinks it’s pretty fucking good luck she was a gymnast; she’s not sure she’d be flexible enough to do this otherwise. The new position allows even a better viewing angle than before, and again she pictures herself, putting herself on display, and again she feels just as overwhelmingly aroused as she does absurd.

Making a sex tape could really come back to bite her in the ass when she runs for office, one day. But she thinks she’s going to worry about that later.

She feels herself starting to clench, feels the burn in her abdomen and legs from the new, more strenuous position, feels the slick, soft glide of her fingers against her clit and the place where they’re joined just beneath, his cock stretching the delicate ring of muscle around her entrance. She loves riding him, controlling the pace; leaving Frank to be little more than a motionless, useless body connected to a cock, something to be used, and he always lets her use him, is more than happy to be used.

And she isn’t, using him. That’s not what this is. It’s times like this, times they venture into new sexual territory together, when she’s convinced she’s never loved him more, because it’s such a thick steel cable of trust that binds them, makes them able to do these kinds of things together; things they’d never dare to do with another partner who might mock them for wanting it, wimp out. They never wimp out. They’re all in, for good, in everything. They freed themselves from shame ages ago, gave each other leave to fulfill any fantasy they might possess, and just when Laurel starts to become certain there’s nowhere new they can go, no dark corner left of their lovemaking to explore, somehow they reach greater heights; more depraved, more filthy. More perverse. With Frank, she’s come to learn there’s _always_ more.

He makes her feel alive, truly alive, and sometimes she thinks she must have been living in some state of suspended animation before; not quite living but not quite _not_ , until Frank wormed his way into her life, into her bed, and worst of all – or perhaps _best_ – into her heart. She loves him, for the things he can make her feel, but she loves him equally much for the times like this, for the freedom he gives her to be herself, releasing her from the shackles of convention and _right_ and _proper_ and _good_. She can be bad, with him.

She can be anything she wants, with him.

“Close,” she breathes, her voice strained, vocal cords strung tight. _All_ of her is strung tight as a wire, being pulled tighter by the second, and she can feel herself start to clench around his cock, but she fights it off. She doesn’t want to come yet. “I’m… shit, I’m really-”

Frank gets the message, hears her loud and clear, knows what she wants; he always does. She wants to prolong this, and so he nudges her off of him, pulling out and somehow managing to steady his ragged breathing long enough to right himself and sink down into a kneeling position on the sheets. Again he grabs her by the hips, turning her sideways, not sparing her much gentleness, and she lets him arrange her how he wants – because if she’s the star of this show, he seems pretty fucking intent on being the director, and she’s not quite sure she could move on her own in any efficient manner if she tried anyway, weak and moaning as she is.

So he tugs her forward, urging her to bend her legs back somewhat, bending them at the knees so they’re closer to her chest and spreading them, exposing her, allowing him complete, unbridled access to her cunt. Frank anchors his hands under both her calves to hold up her legs, moving quickly and methodically, until he has her laid out just like he wants her, and only then does he go still.

And she thinks she could come just from looking at him, right then.

Because he’s looming over her, spreading her out, cock bobbing heavy and thick between his legs, and she can see it glistening with her wetness in the late afternoon sun that streams over them like molten gold. She can only moan helplessly, rolling her hips and squirming at the throb of emptiness between her thighs where he’d been only a moment ago, and she can’t explain what that does to her, that sight of her all over his cock, but all she knows is that it does a _lot_. He’s looming over her, body imposingly burly and downright enormous compared to her, sculpted like a damn Adonis and looking at her with a feral grin. And he isn’t moving. He’s just _looking_.

Looking at her like she’s a feast laid out before him. Like he’s going to fuck her until she’s brainless.

“Do it,” she sputters, voice throaty, ripped from deep in her lungs. She tries not to whimper, to keep still, but finds she can’t manage it. “Hurry… hurry up, _do it_ -”

He doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. He’s decided to be an asshole now, and there is no script, but if there _had_ been, Laurel one hundred percent wouldn’t have been down with this being in it, though in the grand scheme of things she’s sure this makes for better viewing. She’s not a fan of being on the receiving end of this at the moment, though, even if she knows he’s only doing it to slow her down, cool her off, keep her from coming just yet; something _he_ never seems to have a problem with, perplexingly enough. So instead of slipping into her, Frank cants his hips forward slightly, moving in and brushing his cock against her labia, nestling it between them and almost, almost slipping inside before moving higher, to grind against her clit.

She was close. But now she’s slipping back, sliding down the cliffside away from the peak she’d been scaling towards – and she can’t _imagine_ there’s a feeling more frustrating in the world.

“You want my cock?” he drawls, and somehow his voice is maddeningly steady, even though she’d been riding him like a nympho not more than a minute ago. “How do you want it?”

“Oh, fuck, can we-” A moan cuts her off. “Can we not do this right now, Frank-”

“Not yet. Gotta hold out. Hold out for me,” he soothes, lowering his voice as if to keep the camera from hearing, his façade melting away momentarily before it reappears. “Use your words, now. How do you want my cock?”

God, he’s so fucking _cocky_ – in more ways than one – and he’s teasing her, torturing her in a way that feels downright inhumane, but she knows his real purpose is to bring her back down to earth, get her to talk to him and immerse herself in the gravity of this planet once more, because she’s like a rocketship, hurtling uncontrollably out of the atmosphere at the speed of light, and he’s trying to pilot her. Trying to tug her reins back and halt her and make this last.

“Fuck me,” is all she can manage, all the words her fancy ass Ivy League education provides her with, right then. “Hard. D… deep – just… something, God, something-”

A grin slowly spreads itself across his face. “Your mouth? Want me to fuck you there?”

“No – screw you, you… you know what I-”

“Don’t think I do,” he replies, playing dumb, even though he isn’t, about this. No, if there’s one thing Frank isn’t dumb about, it most definitely is _not_ sex. “Ass, then? Feelin’ kinky today?”

She wants to scream. She wants to kick him, really, and given her position she easily could, but petty physical violence won’t really fit the current narrative, so Laurel finally acquiesces, giving in and playing along, knowing he’ll only continue down this frustrating path if she doesn’t tell him what she wants, on no uncertain terms. Spell it out for him.

“My _cunt_ ,” she almost spits the word, and she half-feels like an actual porn star saying that, and she feels a sudden, irrational urge to burst out laughing when she does. This is fucking ridiculous. It’s fucking _wonderful_. “There, you happy now?”

“Oh, I am,” he chuckles, and tugs her closer, and sinks his cock into her. “Very.”

Laurel swears she almost goes cross-eyed from the sensation when he does, and she’s so wet, sopping wet and soaking the sheets and spilling down the crack of her ass, that his passage is blissfully effortless. There’s something about the angle of her elevated hips and the angle at which his cock slips inside her that drives her insane, sets her into a fit of writhing and moaning and muffled sobbing. She feels half-fucked to death and she hasn’t even come yet, and she’s all but forgotten about the camera, given herself over entirely to the basest instincts of her body. She’s close, so close she can taste it, can see the beginnings of fireworks flickering behind her closed eyelids, and so she reaches down, groping for her clit and rubbing it in frenetic, stuttering circles as he fucks her, pace leisurely and measured, but purposeful. Sharp. He plays her body like a maestro, tuning her like an instrument beneath his palms with no trouble at all.

“Open your eyes. Wanna watch you.”

A voice. _His_ voice, fading into her consciousness from some distant, far-off dimension. At first she can’t find it in herself to comply, but after a moment she finally does, and when Laurel does it shoves her even closer to that edge; not a push, not a gentle coax. A hard, brutal shove. Because he’s still hovering over her, fucking into her, and she can _see_ him fucking her, his cock slipping inside then back out, and she can see how she’s flooding onto him too, coating him in her slick.

She can watch his face, the tightening of his jaw, see the look in his eyes, feel the subtle tremor in his hands, the cracks in his composure. She can watch _herself_ , fingering her clit in the space between them, and something about the sight of her own body, all spread out and loose and wide open for him, makes her cry out more freely as the pleasure wells, swells like a hurricane between her thighs. And there’s no eye to this storm. No reprieve from this onslaught.

She really isn’t sure how Frank is still going. How he can still come up with even remotely coherent words at this point. She can’t think, can do nothing but feel, because the pleasure and the dopamine and the pheromones and God knows what else is crowding out everything else in her head, until there’s nothing but a huge, teeming mass of sensation in the empty cavity where her brain used to be.

“Touch yourself,” is all Frank says, and it sounds like he’s ripping each syllable from his throat, raspy and thick. “Make yourself come for me.”

Oh God, she’s close, and she knows perfectly well he _could_ make her come if he truly wanted – but he doesn’t. He’s slowing his pace purposefully, smirking, leaving it up to her to bring herself off and finish the job. She almost roars, but grits her teeth against the urge and reaches down, pawing at her clit madly, frantically, swiping her juices upward for more lubrication. The little frissons of pleasure build, link together into a blinding chain and build, build, _build_ , until finally she’s crying out, going tense, her back arching up and her mouth dropping open as she comes for him. She hears herself moan, almost howl, a long, high-pitched, warbling sound, though it barely sounds like her at all. It’s no one she recognizes, making that sound; it’s some carnal, lust-crazed creature. Not her.

It _is_ her. This is what he _does_ to her, like she’s a werewolf and he’s the full moon at night, bringing out the beast caged between her ribs, the creature simmering beneath her skin, sending it stampeding forth. He turns her into an animal so easily.

He doesn’t even really have to try. He never has.

“Oh God, oh fuck God Frank _ah_ -”

She throws her head back, pitches her chest up so that her breasts stand out, nipples hardened and woefully neglected, and she rubs herself through it as he continues to piston himself in and out, rhythm growing choppier by the second as her cunt clenches greedily around him, as though trying to milk him, draw every drop of his come out of his cock until he’s bone dry. Frank groans, clenching his jaw, but oddly doesn’t seem content to come inside her and be done with it; he seems to want something else.

Something with a tad bit more showmanship.

It’s a while before her vision rights itself, and Laurel finds that she’d all but collapsed before him, gone limp and close to lifeless. She’d lost herself, and when she finds herself again, she realizes he’s released her calves and let her legs sink back down onto the sheets. She feels warm all over, buzzing, pussy wide open and fucked out and gaping in the most delicious way. By now he’s pulled out of her, moved back somewhat and risen to his feet by the side of the bed, and she can tell he’s close by the way he’s practically _leaking_ , his precome mingling with her wetness on his cock into one glistening sheen of desire. He’s breathing hard, flushed, his mouth moving without the capacity to form words.

Now he’s the speechless one. But that’s okay. She can speak for him. She knows what he wants.

Laurel somehow manages to beat her rubbery, useless muscles into submission and flips herself upright, making her way over to him on her hands and knees before sinking down before him in a sitting position. She’s almost at perfect eye-level with his cock, and she sizes him up hungrily, licking her lips, before tilting her head to one side and opening her mouth to speak.

“Where?”

Where does he want to come. Like he’d asked her where she wanted him to fuck her. She’s giving him options, like he’d given her, because options are good, options are _great_ , and options make for a hell of a lot better viewing experience. She thinks she can almost see his eyes roll back in his head at the question, and he’d been so strong before, but now he’s putty in her hands, his cock almost dripping down onto her. She doesn’t have to ask; the way he’s eyeing her lips, his pupils wide as black holes, should be indication enough, so she takes the cue and moves in, brushing her lips against the head of his cock, and he whimpers. And Frank doesn’t _whimper_ , ever, but he does, right then, whimpers like a wounded animal, and she smiles, thrilled to reduce him to such a state; a whimpering, whining, desperate mess.

If he can transform her into a beast, into a creature ruled entirely by desire, then she can do the same to him. She can do it _better_.

“Here?”

“God, Laurel, please…”

His supplication is music to her ears. She considers, briefly, making him beg more, because he would and she knows it, but ultimately she decides against it and leans in, dropping her jaw and closing her mouth around his cock, hollowing out her cheeks to suck him. She can taste herself on him, taste the salty tang of his precome too, and it’s so hopelessly erotic she can’t help the muffled moan that she gives around him, her eyelids slipping shut, mouth full – and she was raised not to talk with her mouth full, so she doesn’t bother pausing to say any words, doesn’t need them. She rubs her thighs together almost unconsciously, aching to reach down and touch her clit again, but she knows she’s too raw and sensitive in the aftermath to come again so soon, so she devotes herself to his pleasure instead, throwing herself into blowing him the same way he’d thrown himself into eating her out.

It doesn’t take long at all. Within a minute, he’s warning her how close he is, preparing her like he always does when he comes in her mouth, before spilling, hot and sudden, inside her, and she drinks him down like her milk and honey, eager and wide-eyed. She glances up, meeting his eyes in a way she knows will destroy him, meeting his eyes so he can watch her swallow him down, ravenous, thirsty for every last drop. And he _shudders_ , when she does; a full-bodied shudder that hits him so hard she swears she can feel it rattle in her bones, until finally the waves are ebbing away and he’s coming down, his muscles relaxing.

Finally, Laurel pulls away. She can feel a few wayward dribbles of him on the corner of her mouth, and she’s not overly inclined to wipe them away just yet. Frank ends up doing it for her, stepping forward and placing his trembling finger on her lips, ridding her of them with a gentle swipe, his blue eyes hazy, the smirk on his lips lazy.

Within seconds he’s bending down, sinking onto the bed with her and kissing her, tasting the remnants of himself on her tongue, and her juices too, and their saliva, and they’re so mingled together, so close in so many ways, that Laurel’s foggy mind almost can’t discern the point at which her body ends and his begins; the barrier separating them seems to have been dissolved completely.

“Fuck, I love you,” he rasps against her lips. “I love you so much.”

Laurel laughs, remembering the camera suddenly and pulling back with a loopy grin. “ _And_ … cut.”

Frank blinks, initially confused, before he remembers too and smiles back, shooting up from the bed, crossing the room to the dresser where the voyeuristic camcorder rests, having seen everything. It’s still recording, as indicated by the glowing red light, and he switches it off at once, picking it up and glancing back with her with raised eyebrows.

“Well,” he says, breathless, and winks. “How ‘bout you and me take a peek at the instant replay, huh?”


	2. Post-Production

Laurel doesn’t need much persuading. Or any, really.

They both dress in short order – her in a tank top and athletic shorts, forgoing a bra and underwear, him in a t-shirt and boxer-briefs – and make their way out into his living room on shaky legs. Frank, who is more technologically inclined, fiddles with the camcorder and plugs it into his television, while Laurel waits patiently on the couch, admiring the view from behind and running her fingers across her lower lip idly, a pleasant, electric buzz thrumming through her limbs. She feels tingly all over in the aftermath, wonderfully insane.

She can’t believe they just did that. They actually _did_ that.

“All right,” Frank says suddenly, and turns, taking a seat on the couch next to her and grabbing the remote. “You ready for this?”

“I’m ready for a lot of embarrassment – second _and_ first hand.”

“It’s not gonna be embarrassing,” he urges, then smirks. “Think we should pop some popcorn or nah?”

Laurel rolls her eyes and leans back, folding her arms. “Just hit play, asshole.”

Frank scoffs, but doesn’t retort and does as she says, hitting play, then setting the remote aside on the coffee table and slinging an arm around the back of the couch behind her, grinning cheekily as he settles in to watch.

And so it begins.

It doesn’t start with a bang – or at least not a literal one; Frank just pulls her over to the bed, mutters that dumbass line about _lights, camera, action_ as he kisses her and holds her down and climbs atop her. It does catch Laurel off guard to see herself so exposed, to see every detail of her naked body like this; not that she hasn’t seen it in the mirror before, of course, but from an outsider’s prospective it looks foreign, not like it belongs to her at all. It’s mildly horrifying at first, and she’s on the brink of demanding Frank turn it off and forget this whole thing when suddenly he pulls away from her lips, on the screen, and starts his voyage down south, settling between her legs with mischief dancing in his eyes, which catch the sunlight and gleam a bright, irresistible blue. The whole room is gleaming, the white sheets glowing in the sunlight. It half-looks like they’re fucking on a cloud.

She’d been horrified, initially, but now Laurel is inexplicably entranced, watching their bodies fit together so effortlessly, seeing the play of the muscles in his arms and back, watching his mouth close over her pussy and go to work, like a nomad in a desert finally reaching an oasis, drinking from the pool of her cunt. For a moment, he just pulls back and looks at her, at that soft, shaven mound between her legs, licking his lips greedily, glancing up at her, and his beard and face is soaked, and she can tell his mouth is watering, and God, he looks downright _sinful_. He looks like he’s never had more fun in his life, too, like a man entering the gates of paradise, and on the screen she’s squirming, grasping his hair, pinching at her nipples. Her moans sound distorted to her ears, like she doesn’t recognize them, and Laurel’s cheeks flush red before she even realizes it. She’s not entirely certain if it’s from embarrassment or arousal.

Little bit of both, possibly.

Because yeah, it’s fucking weird to see herself like this – but there’s also something ridiculously hot about it, about seeing _both_ of them like this. The recording is high-definition – Frank hadn’t been willing to scrimp and settle for anything less, of course – and Laurel imagines she can see down to the tiniest drops of her wetness clinging to his beard, like dew on his lips. Her body is spread out, twitching and shaking beneath the attentions of his mouth. She’s so pale the sun makes her skin seem to glow too, and she’s so _naked_ , her belly and breasts and cunt and ass all over the screen. Any sane person would probably find this disturbing.

But she looks _hot_. The realization hits her like a kick in the head, making her innards squirm and tighten. She looks hot, lying there, legs bent at the knees, her cunt being ravaged by his mouth as she moans an aria of desire into the room around them. It’s absurd, and insane, and _she’s_ insane, but a good kind of insane. She knows there are good kinds of insane; good _and_ bad.

Again – she’s probably a little bit of both.

“Wow,” she breathes, her breath hitching in her throat. She squirms on the sofa, tries to pretend she doesn’t feel the rush of heat between her legs, her body reawakening and demanding more. “This is…”

“Hot,” Frank answers, and she glances over, finding him sporting a semi in his boxer-briefs. He wriggles his eyebrows. “Really damn hot.”

She covers her mouth, shaking her head and stifling a giggle, letting her fingers linger on her lips. “I can’t believe we did this. I…”

Laurel drifts off, because all at once the TV-versions of themselves, those actors, those lunatics, those people from another life, are repositioning their bodies, and Frank is lying back, and she’s straddling him with her face and body towards the camera, riding him reverse cowgirl. The shot is lined up well, and the whole bed is visible, her head only now and then bobbing out of frame as Frank places his hands on her hips and yanks her down onto his cock, that thick, throbbing flesh; a sight that makes Laurel want to match the moan that leaves her lips on screen. She’s riding him, now, facing the camera and leaning forward ever so slightly to rest her hands on his knees, picking up the pace, looking back at him. And Laurel remembers this, of course, remembers how it’d felt, but _seeing_ it like this is a whole other story.

And she thinks calling it X-rated would probably not be _nearly_ drastic enough.

She can see it. See everything. See his cock slipping in and out of her as she rides him, see her breasts bounce, see her face contort and her mouth drop open in a throaty moan. See him place his hands on her hips and guide her back, her hair falling in her sweat-soaked face, sticking to her forehead. She’s beet-red, moaning shamelessly as she takes his cock, and she looks like a porn star – so she supposes she’s played her part well, at least. It’s indecent. It’s filthy. It’s depraved. It’s so much at once, more of a turn-on than she would’ve ever imagined, and before she knows it she’s fidgeting again, pressing her damp thighs together, desperate for the pressure of fingers on her clit, a touch, some friction, some anything.

She won’t do that. _Can’t_ do that. What would that say about her, getting off to a sex tape of herself?

It probably means she’s some kind of twisted narcissist, finding this hot. Finding _herself_ hot. It’s ridiculous, and wrong, and yet she does, God, she does, and judging by his burgeoning erection, Frank does too. She’s always known how good he fucks her, how hard he can make her come, but being confronted with the image on a forty-inch, HD flat screen is jarring, and so horrendously erotic that she imagines she can see a damp spot forming in the crotch of her shorts, soaking through the fabric. Maybe even staining his sofa beneath her.

“Oh, God…” she almost whispers, all the blood in her head making a mass exodus down between her legs and pooling there. “That’s… what I looked like?”

Frank, who has remained mostly silent, and thankfully not given any snarky commentary as of yet, clears his throat, apparently as shaken as she is. Ever the wordsmith, all he can manage is, “Uh… yeah. Fuck.”

Laurel tries to hold out; really, she does. She won’t touch herself to this. She _won’t_ , because that’s such a Frank thing to do, not something _she_ would do, but her willpower is fast evaporating, and finally, when she repositions herself on the television and leans back and starts rubbing at her clit madly, crying out, Laurel gives in, feeling the tiny nub pulsing with every beat of her heart, engorged and demanding attention. She tries to be sneaky, go slow and keep Frank from noticing though she knows it’ll ultimately be futile, and slowly, very slowly, she reaches her hand down, slipping it past the waistband of her shorts and down into them, lower and lower, until she locates her clit. She almost gasps when the pads of her fingers make contact with it, but bites her tongue at the last moment, spreading her legs apart as subtly as she can to allow herself better access.

Her strokes are lazy, at first, working the bud back and forth as she tries to stay still, but of course Frank notices, because she isn’t doing a very good job being discreet, and it’s a good thing because she doesn’t really want to be; she _wants_ him to notice. He raises an eyebrow when he does, a crooked smirk pulling at one side of his lips, as he eyes the bump in her shorts where her fingers have taken up residence, moving lightly across her folds, teasing herself.

“Well, well, well,” he says, as their moans mingle and increase in volume on the television, surrounding them through his speakers, like a sensual duet. He angles himself towards her. “You havin’ fun without me?”

Now that he’s noticed, she can be bolder, spread her legs more, and so she does, leaning back against him and breathing out a chuckle. “Maybe.”

“You little perv,” he undertones, nipping at her earlobe.

Laurel laughs again, feeling her pebbled nipples brushing against the fabric of her tank top, and wishing, desperately, that he’d just rip it off her, suck them and pinch them and abuse them until they ache with that delicious, sweet sort of pain. She’s sure he can see how hard they are, practically begging to be touched, calling for his fingers, his mouth. She’s _also_ pretty sure he’s going to do something about them.

“I know you are,” she teases, glancing back at him and halting her fingers, momentarily. She gives his erection a cursory glance, as if acknowledging an old friend. “But what am I?”

“Oh,” he purrs, and slips his large hand down into her shorts, laying his lips on her neck. “I can think of a few things.”

Laurel leans back against him, adjusting so that Frank can reach her more easily, and within seconds he’s dragging her hand out of her shorts to replace it with his own, taking over for her and letting her sit back and relax. She’s scalding hot, far wetter than she probably should be, and she gives a soft little hum when his fingertips brush her needy, still-sensitive clit, massaging the hard nub, back and forth and then in sloppy circles. She digs her teeth into her lower lip, not tearing her eyes from the screen, not _able_ to.

She’s mesmerized. She can’t do anything but watch, as again they tumble down together on the bed and change positions, this time with Frank kneeling before her, hands holding up her legs, and her lying on her back. It’s a view from the side, and she can see the exact moment his thick flesh sinks inside her, can see how soaked his cock is, how borderline comatose _she_ is. How her whole body goes loose and liquid and pliant when he enters her, like a ragdoll. How he’s watching her so intently as he fucks her, eyes gentle yet predatory, like he wants to eat her alive, devour her.

Her eyes are slipping shut on screen, and she’s writhing, reaching down, groping desperately for her clit, and the sight only amplifies the little zings of electricity coming from her clit now as Frank strokes her; languidly, unhurriedly, not in any rush to get her off fast and hard. She looks delirious, and Laurel _feels_ delirious, and everything is blurring together into one deafening cacophony of moans on the screen mixed in with her own moans now, like some sort of harmony, a call-and-response. The sound of skin slapping skin is obscene, but it’s steady, oddly measured, and Laurel finds herself wanting to laugh.

It could almost be a drumbeat. A metronome, keeping time in this carnal ballet of theirs.

Her head is lolling back, her body slumping, and Frank is quick to hold her up, reaching out with his other hand to turn her cheek back toward the screen. He’s not going to let her miss a second of this, their moment in the spotlight, and finally Laurel manages a huffing laugh at the ludicrousness of it all, at the sight of his hand jammed down her pants like they’re two horny teenagers in the back row at a movie theater.

“Watch yourself,” he orders, and the sound of his voice creeps down her spine, makes her shiver. He redoubles his efforts between her legs, applying more of that delicious pressure right where she needs it. “See how gorgeous you are.”

All she can manage is a soft groan. “Frank…”

“Watch,” he repeats, more firmly this time, when he notices her eyes falling shut once more. “I want you to know what you look like when you come.” A choked half-moan loosens itself from his throat before he can stifle it, as his lips brush the shell of her ear. “I want you to know how beautiful you are.”

Her on-screen counterpart looks barely conscious, Laurel thinks, like he’s fucked all five of her senses right out of her, along with her mobility and just about every scrap of her brains. Her head falls back on the sheets, cries crescendoing, and real-Frank is still teasing her, bringing her closer, executing his timing carefully, like he wants to have her unraveling at the same time she does on the television. All she can do is sit there, slouched, as he rubs her harder, makes her watch herself, and eventually he reaches up, peeling away her tank top and cupping one of her breasts, thumbing at her nipple roughly with his other hand. It’s so much, almost _too_ much stimulation at once when she’s still tender from before, and it’s so stupidly, ridiculously erotic to feel herself building as she watches herself take his cock on screen, hears herself moan on his surround sound speakers, so crisp and clear and real.

She’s no longer sure which one is really her; the lines between the picture on the screen and reality are all hopelessly blurred, and there’s still a delicious thread of embarrassment knotted tight within her stomach, a persistent niggling of shame that sets her cheeks aflame, sets her aflame down below. Somehow it only sweetens the pleasure.

Fuck. And to think they used to call her the _wallflower._

“Oh, God – _oh_ -”

His fingers twist at her nipple, two of his fingers working her clit deftly. She’s not going to come hard, but she’s still sensitive enough from before that she’s going to come, and the pleasure is winding tighter and tighter, like she’s a jack-in-the-box ready to burst out and he’s turning her crank a mile a minute – and then, finally, it happens. She breaks, on screen, and comes with abandon, her mouth dropping open and releasing a sound that almost doesn’t sound human, that sounds more like the wail of a banshee than anything; a sob and a scream and God knows what else. Her back arches up, her body almost convulsing, succumbing to the waves of euphoria that drag her under, and it’s mortifying to watch herself like that, to watch herself shake to pieces all over the bed, come all over his cock, and it’s also captivating, so arousing she burns with it. She shakes, her thighs visibly quivering as he fucks her through it, as she swirls at her swollen clit to carry herself through.

She can’t look away. She’d been so close, agonizingly close; Frank had been holding back, keeping her from coming, but finally that sends her hurtling over the edge, her thighs clamping around his hand as the shockwaves hit her. She gasps, her head falling back against his chest, and it isn’t blinding, mind-blowing pleasure, more like an after-dinner mint, but it’s far from lackluster, either. The pleasant zings and sparks accumulate low in her belly, fill her limbs with a gentle, radiating burn.

There’s no such thing as a lackluster orgasm courtesy of Frank, after all.

“Oh fuck…” she breathes, and out bursts a laugh, before she can think better of it, as she recovers. “Oh God, I can’t believe us.”

Frank makes a low sound, something like a grunt of agreement, his eyes still glued to the screen, and Laurel refocuses her attention there too, watching herself crawl towards him on the bed and sit there and take his leaking cock into her mouth, eyes bright and keen, eager. She can feel that he’s still hard, behind her, hard as a rock and forming a tent in his underwear, and so after a moment she moves to the side, tugging his sticky fingers out of her shorts and palming him over the fabric instead.

She’s mesmerized by this, too; by the sight of his large, muscular, sculpted body, his chiseled back, bulky biceps, powerful thighs, firm ass. He’s so large, physically intimidating, brought so low by the ministrations of her tongue, like he’d drop to his knees in seconds if she asked, and it makes her grin wickedly to watch him unravel, watch him tug her hair and moan as he comes. She swallows him down, throat bobbing, enthusiasm never waning, and Laurel hears Frank’s breath hitch as he watches himself reach out, wipe away a few, thick drops of his come on the corner of her mouth after he’s pulled away.

And they watch themselves fall down together, after, grinning like fools, kissing each other, and the sight makes Laurel soften, abruptly, and stop her work between his legs – because they look happy. Really happy. All that was well and good and hot as hell, sure, but they’re happy, when it comes down to it in the end, and it makes it clear all this had come from a place of trust, of love. Of mutual respect. They wouldn’t be able to do this otherwise.

She wants to laugh, again. A porno with a happily-ever-after. Who would have thought.

The screen flickers to black, finally, and when it does Laurel shifts, rearranging herself and spreading her legs out over his lap with a grin.

“I can’t believe we did that. We really… really did that.”

“Me either. But goddamn.” Frank lets out a low whistle. “That was _hot_. We gotta burn that onto a DVD.”

“Mmm,” she hums her agreement, exhaling contently. “Well, if Annalise ever fires you, you could always have a career in porn.”

“Me? What about you?” he replies, chuckling and tracing a finger idly up and down her leg. “Got the porn star moan already down pat. Could do it on the side. Kickass lawyer by day…”

“I don’t think adding porn to my resume is gonna help me get elected to public office one day.”

Frank shrugs, tacitly acknowledging that fact, before quirking an eyebrow. “What do you think we should call it?”

She scoffs. “What, does our sex tape need a title?”

“’Course. Doesn’t need to be anything fancy. Short and sweet and descriptive,” His fingers dance higher, slipping just underneath her shorts. “Like, ‘Man with massive dick gives sexy brunette best orgasm of her life.’”

Laurel cringes. “Okay, best orgasm of my life? Don’t make claims you can’t back up.”

“You wanna watch it again? Because… I’m pretty sure I backed up the massive dick part, at least. Or…” He drifts off, and lies her back, laying a trail of kisses up her thigh. “If you wanna give me another go, I can most _definitely_ back up the best orgasm part.”

Laurel huffs and sits herself up, giving him a look of contemplation. “If you’re gonna do porn, you’d need a stage name.”

“I vote Big Dick Frankie D,” he supplies, “though I’m not sure I wanna have Doucheface takin’ credit for that.”

“That could be your name. Doucheface Delfino,” she suggests, snickering. “Though… in this case ‘Doucheface’ would mean something _much_ different.”

“All right, all right,” he cuts in, grinning and leaning back against the couch. “Now tell me more about all this porn you watch in your free time, because I gotta admit… I’m very curious.”

Laurel shrugs, playing coy, and climbs down off of the couch, kneeling down before him and settling down between his spread legs, in front of his not at all inconspicuous erection.

“Well,” she breathes, licking her lips. “I can tell you about that, _or_ I can use my mouth for… other, arguably better purposes.”

“C’mon, we can’t compromise? A story-time handy?”

“Nope,” she retorts, popping the ‘p’ for effect. “All or nothing here, Delfino. What’s it gonna be?”

Frank thinks for a moment, then splays his thighs apart ever so slightly more, releasing a sigh. “Fine. But I’ll find out one day.”

“Shut up, Frank.”

“Just remember to clear your browser history, bab-”

Laurel rolls her eyes and leans in all at once, taking him into her mouth with the express purpose of shutting him up. And needless to say, it works very, very well.


End file.
